


The Wind Blows Down My Door

by Chowder



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Charlie Chocobo's Chunky Chicken Soup, Gen, Kid Fic, Prompto Whump, Prompto is a sweetheart, angst with a tiny pinch of fluff, kids love chicken soup, kink meme fill, mentions of child abuse, poor adults don't know how to handle poor child, prompto was rescued later in life (around 4-6)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 08:10:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10715565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chowder/pseuds/Chowder
Summary: Charlie Chocobo's Chunky Chicken Soup comes in a can. It's bland as hell, made up entirely of sodium, and if you're lucky, you can find that there are a few whole noodles shaped like the flightless yellow bird from which the brand steals its name. The rest of the noodles are mostly dissolved into mush, courtesy of poor packaging. Not to mention, Charlie Chocobo's Chunky Chicken Soup is cheap, it's readily available at truck stops, and it’s the perfect midnight snack for a hungry child who hasn't eaten in who knows how long.





	The Wind Blows Down My Door

Charlie Chocobo's Chunky Chicken Soup comes in a can. It's bland as hell, made up entirely of sodium, and if you're lucky, you can find that there are a few whole noodles shaped like the flightless yellow bird from which the brand steals its name. The rest of the noodles are mostly dissolved into mush, courtesy of poor packaging. It's not the first pick for a bunch of soldiers coming back from a mission, camping out at a haven in Cleign. They'd much rather be sitting around the fire, slow roasting a nice meaty chunk of garula and enjoying a toast with beer for a job well finished.

Unfortunately, tonight doesn't look like that kind of night, and Charlie Chocobo's Chunky Chicken Soup is cheap, it's readily available at truck stops, and it’s the perfect midnight snack for a hungry child who hasn't eaten in who knows how long. A child who ruined their mission. A child they found left to rot in a musky cell, nearly skin and bones and sunken cheeks and glassy eyes. A child whom they couldn't leave behind, what kind of monsters would they be?

The fire crackles in the centre of their huddled group, faces illuminated by the ethereal glow. The kid is drowning in one of their jackets (Cor's, probably -- he looked the most put out by all of this). He had been shivering the entire trip, but neglected to say a single word about his state. Or a single word at all for that matter -- trailing behind them, a small and gangly shadow. Not a peep, much less a complaint. Cor is looking at the kid with apprehension, a steady gaze calculating all possible muscle twitches (which are made starkly visible with how tight the skin is pulled over the kid’s arms). Monica has shaken her head at least two dozen times since making camp; whether in disapproval or disbelief, no one can tell. Dustin is silent and poised as ever, and neglects to make any move besides pouring himself another mug of coffee and settling back in his chair. The chill night wind ruffles their hair.

Cor clears his throat with all the subtlety of a behemoth in the city wearing ballet slippers, and makes to get up. "Want some dinner, kid? You look hungry." It's said in the tone one might have when remarking on the weather. Monica refuses to roll her eyes and Dustin sips his coffee.

The kid doesn't looks up, eyes getting wider, and nods minutely. His mouth is firmly sealed shut. If the kid actually has any vocal cords at all may forever remain a mystery. They've given him bottles of water along the way, to ease the signs of dehydration. But, alas.

Cor opens the pack of camping supplies and, with no joyous flourish, takes out three cans of Charlie Chocobo's Chunky Chicken Soup. His gag reflex really hates him at the moment, just thinking about the shit he will have to consume for lack of a complimentary chef. Over at the fire, Dustin abandons his beloved coffee to set up an old copper cooking pot on top of a rack. The flames just lick the bottom of the pot, stained black with soot. Cor takes out a knife and begins to unceremoniously cut off the tops of the cans. A cartoon chocobo stares into his soul, as if taunting him to join the devil for a feast of slimy carrots. He turns the first can upside down, draining its contents into the pot, and then feeds it to the fire, watching the flames eat away at the paper wrapping, consuming cartoon chocobo and all. Two cans fall to the same fate and Cor sits back to watch soup boil. Fascinating camp entertainment.

The air is stale. Cor takes a deep breath. "What's your name kid?" Monica looks ready to deck Cor in the face. So nothing unusual.

The kid gives Cor a blank stare, grips the Crownsguard coat a little tighter. No one expected an answer. They can only guess what the kid has been through (they don't actually want to guess; they hope it stays secret forever). The skin over his knobby knuckles are white as bleached linens. His equally knobby knees are drawn up to his slight chest, breathing uneven and watery. Kid didn't come with shoes, so Dustin had to make some impromptu with pieces of ripped cloth and string. What the kid did come with were pants and a shirt, soiled and thin from continued use without cleaning and big enough to drown him. No wonder he was so cold, the little fat the kid has on his body sucks at its job.

The soup is ready in what feels like hours, the silence a blanket to mute, but never block, time. Monica grabs some bowls and spoons from the pack of camping supplies. Dustin is sleeping with his eyes open, trained on his retrieved mug of coffee. He hasn't twitched since his last sip. Thin soup is ladled into bowls and passed down the line. Dustin still hasn't moved, so Cor sets the man’s portion on the ground for later (it will go untouched, and they are all wise to say nothing). The kid reaches out shakily when handed his portion, a croaked, "Thank you very much," reaches their ears only barely. So kid does have vocal cords. Manners to boot.

Foggy baby blues gaze at the soup bowl with wonder, tucked between bent knees and chest. A spindly hand picks up the old wooden spoon to poke at a noodle. With slow motions, the kid brings a spoon of broth and slime carrot to his mouth and closes chapped lips around the neck of the utensil. They are definitely not watching as the kid's eyes brighten in disbelief at this disgusting mess of a cheap meal, like a world class chef has just made chicken breast fillet drizzled in a savoury butter cream sauce and garnished with fresh picked herbs and vegetables. They are definitely not watching as the kid throws away the spoon and brings the bowl to his lips, downing the rest of the meal with gusto, reminiscent of a fish on land. They are definitely not watching as the kid, in all his kid euphoria, jerks his head up and pronounces, "More, more!" And they are most certainly not watching as the kid throws up seconds later, stomach too shrunken to hold as much Charlie Chocobo’s Chunky Chicken Soup as he has eaten in five minutes.

Cor clears his throat after Monica has given the kid water and another bowl of soup ("Slow spoonfuls. Let it settle. That's it. Take a deep breath.") and Dustin has wiped up the chunky mess on the ground by the kid's chair. "Do you want to tell us your name?" He tries again.

The kid is livelier, not as teetering on the edge of death as he was before dinner. He still won't meet Cor's eyes though. No one pushes, anyway. "Usually they call me by my number." Kid holds up his wrist so the black inked lines glimmer in the fire. "But father used to call me Prompto."

Cor grits his teeth, sure he won't have any when they make it back to the Citadel for debriefing. Prompto is probably five, though his lack of proper nourishment could just make it seem that way. Cor is thirty and he was sent on a failed secret mission with his fellow Crownsguard to gather intel on Imperial tech development and is going back with an incredibly fucked up child. How Clarus will handle this, Cor can only guess. Right now, Cor bends over his knees, face in hands, and sobs quietly, stomach full of gross truck stop soup.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in an hour for a prompt on the kink meme. I have so many prompts saved to fill, and yet this is the one I choose first, lol! It's super quick and was written on my phone. I fixed it though, so there shouldn't be any problems, but let me know if there are. I don't plan to continuing, but if I get another inspiration spurt, who knows. Leave a comment if you think you know where the title comes from. Comments and kudos are welcomed, even if you don't know!


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